Middlemarch

CHAPTER LXXXII.

”My grief lies onward and my joy behind.” --SHAKESPEARE: Sonnets.

Exiles notoriously feed much on hopes, and are unlikely to stay inbanishment unless they are obliged. When Will Ladislaw exiled himselffrom Middlemarch he had placed no stronger obstacle to his return thanhis own resolve, which was by no means an iron barrier, but simply astate of mind liable to melt into a minuet with other states of mind,and to find itself bowing, smiling, and giving place with politefacility. As the months went on, it had seemed more and more difficultto him to say why he should not run down to Middlemarch--merely for thesake of hearing something about Dorothea; and if on such a flying visithe should chance by some strange coincidence to meet with her, therewas no reason for him to be ashamed of having taken an innocent journeywhich he had beforehand supposed that he should not take. Since he washopelessly divided from her, he might surely venture into herneighborhood; and as to the suspicious friends who kept a dragon watchover her--their opinions seemed less and less important with time andchange of air.

And there had come a reason quite irrespective of Dorothea, whichseemed to make a journey to Middlemarch a sort of philanthropic duty.Will had given a disinterested attention to an intended settlement on anew plan in the Far West, and the need for funds in order to carry outa good design had set him on debating with himself whether it would notbe a laudable use to make of his claim on Bulstrode, to urge theapplication of that money which had been offered to himself as a meansof carrying out a scheme likely to be largely beneficial. The questionseemed a very dubious one to Will, and his repugnance to again enteringinto any relation with the banker might have made him dismiss itquickly, if there had not arisen in his imagination the probabilitythat his judgment might be more safely determined by a visit toMiddlemarch.

That was the object which Will stated to himself as a reason for comingdown. He had meant to confide in Lydgate, and discuss the moneyquestion with him, and he had meant to amuse himself for the fewevenings of his stay by having a great deal of music and badinage withfair Rosamond, without neglecting his friends at Lowick Parsonage:--ifthe Parsonage was close to the Manor, that was no fault of his. He hadneglected the Farebrothers before his departure, from a proudresistance to the possible accusation of indirectly seeking interviewswith Dorothea; but hunger tames us, and Will had become very hungry forthe vision of a certain form and the sound of a certain voice.Nothing, had done instead--not the opera, or the converse of zealouspoliticians, or the flattering reception (in dim corners) of his newhand in leading articles.

Thus he had come down, foreseeing with confidence how almost everythingwould be in his familiar little world; fearing, indeed, that therewould be no surprises in his visit. But he had found that humdrumworld in a terribly dynamic condition, in which even badinage andlyrism had turned explosive; and the first day of this visit had becomethe most fatal epoch of his life. The next morning he felt so harassedwith the nightmare of consequences--he dreaded so much the immediateissues before him--that seeing while he breakfasted the arrival of theRiverston coach, he went out hurriedly and took his place on it, thathe might be relieved, at least for a day, from the necessity of doingor saying anything in Middlemarch. Will Ladislaw was in one of thosetangled crises which are commoner in experience than one might imagine,from the shallow absoluteness of men's judgments. He had foundLydgate, for whom he had the sincerest respect, under circumstanceswhich claimed his thorough and frankly declared sympathy; and thereason why, in spite of that claim, it would have been better for Willto have avoided all further intimacy, or even contact, with Lydgate,was precisely of the kind to make such a course appear impossible. Toa creature of Will's susceptible temperament--without any neutralregion of indifference in his nature, ready to turn everything thatbefell him into the collisions of a passionate drama--the revelationthat Rosamond had made her happiness in any way dependent on him was adifficulty which his outburst of rage towards her had immeasurablyincreased for him. He hated his own cruelty, and yet he dreaded toshow the fulness of his relenting: he must go to her again; thefriendship could not be put to a sudden end; and her unhappiness was apower which he dreaded. And all the while there was no more foretasteof enjoyment in the life before him than if his limbs had been loppedoff and he was making his fresh start on crutches. In the night he haddebated whether he should not get on the coach, not for Riverston, butfor London, leaving a note to Lydgate which would give a makeshiftreason for his retreat. But there were strong cords pulling him backfrom that abrupt departure: the blight on his happiness in thinking ofDorothea, the crushing of that chief hope which had remained in spiteof the acknowledged necessity for renunciation, was too fresh a miseryfor him to resign himself to it and go straightway into a distancewhich was also despair.

Thus he did nothing more decided than taking the Riverston coach. Hecame back again by it while it was still daylight, having made up hismind that he must go to Lydgate's that evening. The Rubicon, we know,was a very insignificant stream to look at; its significance layentirely in certain invisible conditions. Will felt as if he wereforced to cross his small boundary ditch, and what he saw beyond it wasnot empire, but discontented subjection.

But it is given to us sometimes even in our every-day life to witnessthe saving influence of a noble nature, the divine efficacy of rescuethat may lie in a self-subduing act of fellowship. If Dorothea, afterher night's anguish, had not taken that walk to Rosamond--why, sheperhaps would have been a woman who gained a higher character fordiscretion, but it would certainly not have been as well for thosethree who were on one hearth in Lydgate's house at half-past seven thatevening.

Rosamond had been prepared for Will's visit, and she received him witha languid coldness which Lydgate accounted for by her nervousexhaustion, of which he could not suppose that it had any relation toWill. And when she sat in silence bending over a bit of work, heinnocently apologized for her in an indirect way by begging her to leanbackward and rest. Will was miserable in the necessity for playing thepart of a friend who was making his first appearance and greeting toRosamond, while his thoughts were busy about her feeling since thatscene of yesterday, which seemed still inexorably to enclose them both,like the painful vision of a double madness. It happened that nothingcalled Lydgate out of the room; but when Rosamond poured out the tea,and Will came near to fetch it, she placed a tiny bit of folded paperin his saucer. He saw it and secured it quickly, but as he went backto his inn he had no eagerness to unfold the paper. What Rosamond hadwritten to him would probably deepen the painful impressions of theevening. Still, he opened and read it by his bed-candle. There wereonly these few words in her neatly flowing hand:--

”I have told Mrs. Casaubon. She is not under any mistake about you. Itold her because she came to see me and was very kind. You will havenothing to reproach me with now. I shall not have made any differenceto you.”

The effect of these words was not quite all gladness. As Will dwelt onthem with excited imagination, he felt his cheeks and ears burning atthe thought of what had occurred between Dorothea and Rosamond--at theuncertainty how far Dorothea might still feel her dignity wounded inhaving an explanation of his conduct offered to her. There might stillremain in her mind a changed association with him which made anirremediable difference--a lasting flaw. With active fancy he wroughthimself into a state of doubt little more easy than that of the man whohas escaped from wreck by night and stands on unknown ground in thedarkness. Until that wretched yesterday--except the moment ofvexation long ago in the very same room and in the very samepresence--all their vision, all their thought of each other, had beenas in a world apart, where the sunshine fell on tall white lilies,where no evil lurked, and no other soul entered. But now--wouldDorothea meet him in that world again?